


bite the bullet (it's you or me, baby)

by GeneralPo



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: During/After Episode 12, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, ending speculation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:27:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GeneralPo/pseuds/GeneralPo
Summary: between the gaps of his insatiable attraction and the taste of leftover violence gone stale and nauseating, Nero’s conviction is flagging, stuttering, down: he can empty his shot into the vulnerable arch of Avilio’s careless, open back - as he should have, those seven years ago,toolong ago, or --





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> late to the fandom party but hey! wanted to contribute something because i'm shattered inside by that ending
> 
> first time publicly sticking work up but i am fearless because after 91 days i have nothing left to live for

the sea is so, immeasurably _vast_ ; it looms far into Nero’s mind, more daunting than any mafia boss or even the prospects of full-blown war; it swallows up everything greedily, even the small, swaying silhouette before him --

 

Exhaustion-drunk, he sometimes thinks they would have made such a good pair, the two of them: the clever, remorseless brains with the bold, natural leadership - Lawless would have _never_ known what was coming for them  --

 

it’s a small mercy that Avilio never turns back, head raised straight - or defiant, doesn’t matter; he’s somehow so admirable either way - and Nero slowly withdraws the gun stowed away in his jacket, takes careful aim so that’s it’s immediate and painless, because still, he respects this man. Somewhere in the distance, a gull croons, low and mournful like the funeral horn of some sad, opera house tragedy --

 

“You’ve never seen the sea before?” A curt head shake.

“I see. Neither have I.”

Next to him, Avilio curls in on himself and leans against the window, finally unguarded, finally fully relaxed around Nero. The irony, Nero thinks sardonically, how vibrant he looks right now at the brink of death, with the sun floating gentle halos in his extraordinarily soft, dark hair. It’s a gorgeous head of hair, reminds Nero a little too much of that sleek little stray cat he’d picked up sometime as a kid. His fingers twitch restlessly. Gee, do you think he would mind too much if Nero just reached over and --

 

between the gaps of his insatiable attraction and the taste of leftover violence gone stale and nauseating, Nero’s conviction is flagging, stuttering, down: he can empty his shot into the vulnerable arch of Avilio’s careless, open back - as he should have, those seven years ago, _too_ long ago, or --

 

“After all that, I decided I didn’t want to kill you.” What the fuck. And then, a desperate _what in the world made you change your mind? Why_ me? Nero wants to know, has to know, but fucking hell, they’re already here and he refuses to plead and it’s far, far too late, there’s a gun is _his_ hands but that’s his heart hanging in Avilio’s --

 

at some distant shore, a shot rings out, harsh and final. It echoes momentarily, and is lost to the incessant crash of the surf. Equilibrium returns; unruffled, unknowing, uncaring. Two ragged men arrive in a dusty, well-worn automobile. One of them drives away, a forlorn, all-too-out-of-place can of pineapples lying lonesome in the passenger seat. The engine purrs to life once more, mechanical rebirth of spark and fire and human deliberation, and not once does its driver pause to look back.

 

\-------

 

“You missed.” 

Avilio’s tone is quiet, bemused, even a tad petulant. How peculiar, how charming, _still_ , his words are in the space of the moment, more piercing than any bullet, and all the more effective in penetrating Nero’s walled-off, fortressed heart. He turns the slightest bit around, eyes Nero with his familiar gold-steel glare: “Why.”

“I don’t miss,” Nero responds cleanly, tucking the gun back into his jacket holster. “Avilio Bruno was shot dead on some obscure beach after completing his revenge against the Vanetti family. His killer is Nero Vanetti, the sole survivor, who’s now on the run from the Galassias family.” He lifts his eyes to appraise the youth before him. “His story is over now.”

A challenge. A bluff. An offer of freedom.

Angelo Lagusa is silent, usual snappy, caustic mouth gone slack in shock, or otherwise deep contemplation. It’s an unnerving change from the usual. At last, he shifts in position, drawing himself in closer, looking younger and more shaken than Nero’s ever seen him before. “I see,” he mutters off-handedly, head down-turned, eyes impassively shaded from Nero’s. At this distance, Nero can’t quite decode the locked-down expression on his face - who knows if the trembling shove of hands into pockets, the worrying draw of his knife-carved mouth means the same tender, open show of regret he’d been so _proud_ to decipher in the cryptic Avilio Bruno.

Angelo Lagusa, on the other hand, is a beautiful stranger, molded from some fading, sepia-painted memory; a dusty and painfully familiar reminder of what had been, and what was irretrievably lost, now - a bad love song, turned dusky-sweet in the boozy throat of a speakeasy entertainer. In a sudden rush of longing and frustration, Nero desperately wants to grab Angelo close, keep him by his side, kiss him deep and passionate and forever like one of Fio’s cheesy romance novels - but just as quickly, the feeling breaks. True, he may no longer be a don, but his pride as a Vanetti man runs strong and fast to his blood - and blood, he’s shed and honored more than his fair share of it because of the man before him.

Wrong, he thinks angrily, wrong, all wrong, all twisted and messed up. Not because of Angelo, or Avilio, or Nero or anyone - deep down, he knows, he knows that it’s all been coming to this. The mafia life cuts men down faster than anything, tips them over like the flimsy pieces of a domino trainwreck, he knows that, he knows that. It just so happens that this time, he’s dealt his heart out too, along with all his cards to the man playing russian roulette for two - the only two in the whole world to know what it feels like - to steal and have stolen away a family, blood on their palms and death in their eyes. Nero is a damaged man, but goddammit, he’s not _broken_ enough to blind himself to his own truth, to what needs to be done now that he’s made his choice. This is his final play.

“I don’t believe I know you, stranger,” he finally says, voice smooth and unbroken as the tidal horizon, “but there’s rumor of some dangerous men traveling around these parts. Mafia and the like, y’know.” Nero pauses, carefully considers the consequences in the footprints before him. “You could stay here for as long as you like, of course, but if you walk forward for a couple miles there’s a small, relatively quiet town up ahead. Not too well known, full of normal people with normal lives, you can imagine.” Angelo stares at him, gaze scrutinizing, asking. They both know the unspoken, unforgivable question, feel the ticking press of time gaining on them.

“Me, I think I’m gonna head down south,” Nero continues, a little too confidently. “Heard good things about there, think I’ll see it for myself.” With that, he spins faux-jauntily around, cocking a hand out as he strolls back to the car. He does not wait for a response, does not listen for any sign of attention or surprise in the other’s movements. Behind him, the surf - and perhaps a boy - breaks itself on the sand, wiping clean the traces of any meeting, any parting. The sun is setting. Time marches on the relentless death gong. Nero inhales the lingering scent of salt and sea; exhales to the taste of phantom regret and gunpowder smoke. He unlocks the car door, fires the engine; steels himself to leave forever. Somewhere in between, somebody possibly mumbles a hasty “I’m sorry”, but then Nero is gone, gone, lost amidst the rusted battlezone of his memory and the new ones he’ll be facing soon.

Angelo Lagusa watches the retreating figure of a man he’d sworn to kill from too long ago disappear. Chases him down with his eyes, if not his hands or a bullet or begging, biting words, hunts the broad slope of reliable shoulders for a prize he may very well never claim again. It’s too late already, but there’s something that still feels incomplete, feels lacking, somehow. Lifting a hand to cup the side of his mouth, Angelo closes his eyes. Calls out in vain.

“Farewell, Nero Vanetti.”

 

\-------

 

On some distant shore, a figure turns away, trudges forth. Their destination is unknown, just a second-hand glimmer of hope from some passing wanderer, but it’s enough to push them forward. Perhaps, they ponder cynically, there’s only death waiting at the end of the road, a hired gun round the next turn, a bullet between the eyes. Maybe, they refuse to hope, it’s rebirth, written in rippling tide and sand. But from this point onwards, that much is known and accepted, there exists also infinite, sublime possibility - more elusive than any lie, more powerful than any mafia don, more compelling than the blood ties that bind a man to anything, anywhere.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for sticking with me all the way to the end, mate. have a good life, leave a comment or something if the fancy strikes you, but i think i'll adore you for getting here either way. perhaps it will brighten my day after i finish getting destroyed by college finals. cheers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A possibility, a reckless shot in the dark. Doesn't matter; he knows he'll make it anyway.

It’s cold, tonight. Angelo leans against the porch railing of this week’s lodging house, ignoring the blunt prickle of chipped paint splinters as he takes in the first snowfall of the season. It glows with an unearthly radiance. A lantern dangles overhead, small but brilliant flame casting light across the rafters, a guide for late-night wanderers. Angelo peers owlishly at it, then relaxes. Nestled within one gloved palm, he nurses a fresh mug of cocoa, bittersweet and minty, frothy cream thick like the blanket of snow before him. He breathes in the chocolatey fragrance, savors it like a cigarette, and decides he definitely prefers one of them far more than the other. To the side, the house matron pops her head out to wink cheerfully at him, round, mirthful cheeks pinking from the cold.

 

“Take care not to freeze out there, young man! Our nightly rates don’t cover any frostbitten toes or fingers made during your stay!” Her tone is light, but her smile is concerned in a probing, motherly way that makes Angelo carelessly promise her he’ll ‘come back inside soon’ even as he gazes distractedly at the frigid landscape before him. She waves his indifference away with a worn, calloused hand - strong, work-toughened fingernails, absurdly elegant, Angelo thinks with puzzled nostalgia - and asks after the forgotten hot chocolate, still cushioned between Angelo’s hands.

 

“Extra sugar,” she clucks fussily, “but I wasn’t too sure exactly how _much_ would suit a young man’s tastes! I was thinking that maybe up north they just don’t serve it up _quite_ right like we do down here - those folks seem to like their drinks as bitter and joyless as their general temperament, pardon me - so I thought you mighta just been compensating. Though most of the lodgers here usually ask after the house liquor, y’know, now that Prohibition’s done and over - but _you_ look like you’ve come in for a change of pace, eh? I do hope you’re liking your chocolate, made it ‘special nice and rich for a such a good-lookin’ young fella like you.”

 

She stares at him expectantly, and under her scrutiny Angelo once again feels like a boy before his mother, feels compelled to respond earnestly in a way he hasn’t in a long, long time. It’s unsettlingly comfortable.

 

He startles himself with his own actions, as he lifts his head and answers her honestly, “Yeah, I was. And - ,” he turns away, mumbles through the rim of his cup, “ - and it’s good. It’s really good. Thank you, ma’am.”

 

At that, the matron grins in prim satisfaction: “You’re welcome, honey”, and returns to her - very popular, if the drunken cheers are any indication - bar, leaving Angelo lost with his thoughts once more. He closes his eyes, and they simmer in the darkness, low and insistent.

 

The matron’s departure leaves Angelo with a distinct sense of disconnection, the feeling of peace she imposes too at odds with the tension permanently coiled in his gut. This is civilian life. This is the security of harmless neighbors, of friendly smiles and honest encounters with regular folk. Here is a place where he can close his eyes, and trust them to open in the next heartbeat over.  

 

It’s … nice, Angelo thinks helplessly. It’s nice, and lovely, and so, so generous to offer a hand to someone like him and help him forget, but -

 

\- but Angelo is a haunted man, and no gentle dreams will wipe clean the bullet scars mapping constellations across his body, or the guilty scent of blood off his skin.

 

When he closes his eyes, he recalls the life he had before this one - in _that_ life, he was the infamous right-hand man to a mafia don, the rise and downfall of an empire, the deathly harbinger and victim of revenge. He had trust, he had power, he had a grand, elaborate scheme and the purpose to carry it all the way through - and by the time he’d finally opened his eyes to the unraveling scenery before him, already was he bound for an endless ocean, one sole surviving companion to guide him past the smoking wreckage. From those ninety-one days now lost to the ages, Angelo relives a distant memory of dusty cigarette smoke and starlit air, wire-strung confrontation as a way of life, and heated, brute physicality in those unceremonious, silenced chambers.

 

\-------

 

Angelo would be a filthy, shameless liar if he said he cared for absolutely nothing about it. It’s almost funny, if you take into consideration the lifeless stupor his world had been before he met _him_.

 

\-------

 

If he squints, the shadows seem to creep larger, linger a little longer than the lantern’s actual flicker. With the snow coming down just a bit harder now, they take on real substance, and the snowdrifts morph into faces of icy detail. He counts them down in his head, whispers their names as if an apology: Vanno. Volpe. Frate.

 

Corteo.

 

Del Toro. Barbero. Countless names of those lost to the dead.

 

Ganzo. Don Galassias. Vincent Vanetti. He pauses midway through the next name, warm syllables perched uncomfortably on the edge of his memory. There’s one he’s not entirely sure about. Angelo breathes out.

 

“Nero Vanetti.” He raises his mug in half-hearted salute, a one-man tribute to the deceased. In memory of the dead and forgotten. Its steaming contents slosh wildly, aromatic and heady, and while it’s certainly no _Lawless Heaven_ , Angelo downs it all in a single, scalding gulp.

 

\-------

 

Cup drained, he wanders out the shelter of the porch overhang, letting the chill wind nip and snarl at the impudence of his venture. He doesn’t care at all, can’t feel a thing anyways, and so Angelo lets his legs walk him out at legato rhythm , thoughts scattered and eyes set on nowhere as he counts down each breath freezing out his chest, on his lips. Wisping tufts of snow drift across his nose, cheeks, eyelashes. Snow, like that of near a decade ago - _merciless, unrelenting, and cruelly cold as the flakes piled in his hair and thin cardigan_ \- but this time, it hardly bothers him. His steps pick up at an easy pace; no longer the frantic, fear-soaked tumble of a boy lit from both ends, but the deliberate, slow-burn calm of a man, nary a flicker of caution in his thoughts. Snow continues to flutter down, but it’s easing up now to just the gentlest sprinkle of moisture. Still, Angelo refuses to look backwards, does not turn to bring himself back inside or stall the dampening chill that’s now creeping into him.

 

He loses track of time.

 

If Angelo looks behind himself, there’s the cozy glow of the lodging house, the mistress waiting inside with her kindly smiles and expertly crafted cocoa, a safe bed to sleep in for as long as he likes. From outside, its lights burn with a magnetic intensity, but those fires all are caged and controlled - a stark contrast to the hateful, blazing ruins of his family home, the memories played on tired loop. His mother cradles little Luce in her arms, covers his eyes, and kisses him for the last time. Four masked men sack the halls in search of their final target. A boy, ragged with terror, flees from his murderous pursuers and enters an impenetrable wilderness.

 

And as he did then, he also does now: Angelo Lagusa does not look backwards.

 

If he had done so a decade ago, he might have stared down the barrel of an executioner’s revolver; a year or two ago, the haunted faces of a previous, guiltier life. But what of now, he wonders. He’s really not so sure anymore.

 

Angelo scans the forested land in front of him, squints until his eyes lose focus and the colors all swim before him. In his mind’s eye, the snow stretches on, far, far out until it blends smooth with the horizon and ripples at the edge like so many tumultuous waves. At his feet, the fine layer of powder snow thins out to sparkling gold and tan, sand particles crunching and giving way as Avilio Bruno steadily trudges forward to the pounding beat of his heart, eyes trained on nowhere, counting down the seconds filtering past his chest and through his lips.

 

The air itself vibrates as a familiar voice resounds, over and over like a promise, “You don’t need a reason to live. You just _live_.” It sounds unbearably close and distant at the same time, thunderously loud yet muted next to the roar of blood and surf crashing in Angelo’s ears. Its owner, however, is curiously absent from the scene.

 

He faces down the sloped figure before him, observes its defeated, uncaring slouch, recognizes the dull weariness to its eyes. They both understand it no longer has a place among the living. With utmost deliberation, he brings both arms to position, concentrates hard. At his will, a solid weight returns to his hands, intimate and reassuring. Here is his answer. This is what must be done.

 

Angelo thumbs the safety off, grips the solid heft of the handle, tests the relaxed tension of the trigger and finds it all satisfactory. He takes precise aim, so that it’s swift and decisive - because despite everything, he _understands_ this man, and does not close his eyes when he fires.

 

\-------

 

Avilio Bruno falls. The tide rushes home, sweeps the body up and carries it under to melt back into the scenery. Piece by piece, the ocean recedes into frosted background and the beach fades away until it’s just Angelo by himself, alone in the snow. There are miniature icicles crusted into his muffler, and his ears are prickly numb.

 

“Yo-oung man, “ he hears the house mistress scold from afar, “you get back here right now, or so God help me, I will drag you in here myself!”

 

Surprised, Angelo whirls around, dislodging whole chunks of ice in the process. With sudden clarity, he registers the impressive distance from his location to the porch, the now aggressive swirl of winter wind, and the fact he can longer feel his toes. He tries to wiggle them. No luck there.

 

“Believe me, I’ve tossed out drunken men twice your size before.” The matron hollers threateningly from the door, fist shaking with indignant energy, “You’d be nothin’ to sling over the shoulder, mark my wor-”

 

“I’m coming now, thank you Mrs. Hopkins,” Angelo returns smoothly, starting up a stiff jog to the frowning matron. It’s cold tonight, and his toes are painfully numb, but his steps are renewed and strong. It’s weird, but he feels good. He passes Mrs. Hopkins at the door, who collects his abandoned mug and brushes down his clothes with brusque, unmerciful strokes. Angelo accepts it all with resigned humor, flashing a quick smile at the grumbling woman when her wrath seems nearly abated.

 

“I do ‘ppreciate it, ma’am. And good night,” he murmurs, slipping off to his room before a red-faced Mrs. Hopkins can squawk out in apoplectic fury.

 

The door slips shut behind Angelo. He sinks tiredly into the bed, turning over the papers in his hand, snagged easily off a snoring patron’s table. In the dim light of the smoky lampshade, he can barely make out the muted colors on the travel brochure, but the bold, chalky font is as unmistakable as the lush, scenic illustration: _Florida_.

 

A voice, two parts too confident, one part bitterly wistful, resounds in the quiet: “… think I’ll head down South… head down South … South …”. Angelo presses his lips together in unhappiness.

 

At that time, he hadn’t the resolution to ask Nero the question burning to pieces in his rib cage, hadn’t the certainty of those feelings - Nero’s _or_ his own - to just let the man know Angelo would _really_ rather he stayed. And so he’d let Nero walk away, drive off all self-sacrificing and noble and stupid, and disappear from the discarded memory of Avilio Bruno, just like that.

 

What a dumbstruck idiot, himself. What a typical and selfless and admirable coward, _him._

 

But now - now, Angelo resolves silently, fingers gripping spider-web creases into the glossy paper - this is all different. Nero Vanetti - former mafia don, charismatic criminal, hardened survivor - has no reason to run from the civilian Angelo Lagusa, should they happen to meet again. And in the case he does - well, he can go ahead and run as he likes. Angelo Lagusa is confident in his stamina.

 

Staring at the ceiling, Angelo re-evaluates his options and procedures once more, double checks his facts and desires and realizes he’s badly wanted this since too long ago. Yes, he thinks fiercely, south is the way to go. South, if that means back to your side. It’s decided. Angelo rolls into the sheets, shuts his eyes with a newfound determination, and drifts off to sleep with a wish, a brochure, and a name clutched dearly to his chest.

 

\-------

 

In his dreams, Avilio Bruno is shot again, clean through the center of his chest, and Angelo Lagusa rises from the remains to stare in shock at the man before him, already retreating in his words if not his movements. “His story is over now,” Vanetti concludes, eyes unreadable.

 

A bluff. A challenge. An offer of freedom? He can hardly believe it. An unidentifiable emotion, chokingly hot and liquid, wells through his vessels, pounds through his chest, and overflows past his characteristic unbreakable silence. Angelo finds his voice, now and desirous and painfully sincere, and unshackles it.

 

“And what about Angelo Lagusa?” he demands with renewed strength, stepping forward until he closes the frustrating gap between them. “Where does _he_ stand, to Nero Vanetti?” He makes eye contact, tilts his head up in precarious balance between defiance and desperation as he awaits his damning judgement.

 

“Is it,” he gets out, slightly out of breath, cheeks pinking from exertion or emotion, “by his side?”

 

Nero looks at him in clear wonder, and Angelo realizes just how close they are now - a few centimeters away from bumping noses - but it’s far too late to back down now. He squares his shoulders and looks at Nero the way Avilio only ever did when no one else was watching, and casts his life out on the line to the man before him.

 

“Please let me stay by your side.”

 

\-------

  
The crash of sun-kissed waves washes over the sound of Nero’s voice, and then suddenly, the sky is all too lovely and sparkling in Angelo’s dazzled eyes - but as Angelo gradually stirs back to consciousness, he thinks he spies the quirk of Nero’s lips into the most handsome grin Angelo’s ever seen, and then he’s pulled in closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. Filthy headcanon but I am without a shred of remorse
> 
> Quick and dirty summary is: one of the possibilities Angelo could be living after surviving The Beach Scene, where he wavers in and out of normal, boring civilian life and finds himself unfulfilled bc he has yet to come to terms with his new (or is it old?) existence as Angelo Lagusa and not Avilio Bruno. Hence some soul-searching to realize that what he really wants deep down is Nero Vanetti, regardless of whichever name he goes by. Closure is a tricky thing to find.
> 
> jk it's all just a prank; i'm really sleepy right now, you tell me what all this means bc i sure as hell don't
> 
> Cheers, friend, and may your dreamlands be more expansive and more pleasant than mine :^)


End file.
